Saturday, March 21, 2015

That anxiously awaited, feverishly anticipated time when one was finally considered a grown up.

And, at long last, able to join the 4-H Calf Club.

Well, it was a highlight in our family.

Moving on . . .

Yep. 4-H. No end of excitement.

First, there was the all-important choosing of the calf, which enlisted years and years of experience and an eye for perfection. ("Umm . . . I want the red and white one over there! Nooo . . . I mean the red and white one over there . . . Wait! I want that one! He's cute!")

Then there was the twice daily ritual of feeding said calf. (Accomplished for the first day by me, and thereafter by my brother, George. For the entire six calves and six years I was in 4-H.)

There were the monthly meetings where we were expected to hand in our record books. (A concise documentation of our calf's daily diet, inevitable weight gain, and any other pertinent information. Frantically estimated and scribbled before/during the meeting.)

Then, twice a year, there were the 'calf tours'. (Where we exclaimed, more or less knowledgeably over each other's calves. And then, more importantly, had a wonderful dinner at one of the homes. Usually one of the families of Hungarian descent. The best cooks in the entire world. Mmmmm.)

And finally, at the end of the year, we loaded our now-enormous darlings into trucks and headed into Lethbridge for the final show and sale.

“No, Bud, we’re not stealing your car. You can sit right next to me and we’ll all get home safely.”

“SSS’MY car!!!”

“Yes, it’s your car, and you can sit next to me . . .”

“No onesdrivin’ MY CAR!!!”

This went on for some time.

I hurried to a nearby phone booth (google it) and called home.

Getting my sleepy father out of bed.

“Daddy! Our driver’s drunk!” I wailed over the phone.

He was awake immediately. “Don’t let him drive!”

“We’re trying not to, but he’s so angry!”

“Don’t let him drive! Do you think you can convince him? Do I need to come and get you?”

I looked over at my friends, grouped around my date, who was still trying to talk to his friend. My date was saying something and the driver was shaking his head forcibly, nearly sending himself tumbling with the simply action.

“I don’t knooow!”

As I stood there, my date propped up his friend and stood back. The friend/driver nearly fell over – saved at the last moment when someone grabbed his arm.

We left the brightly-lighted city and started out along the dark highway.

We didn’t get far.

“I ssshould be drivin’! SSSS’MY car!!!”

My date looked over at his friend. “You’re too drunk, Buddy,” he said. “I’ll get us all home safely.”

“SSS’MY CAR!!!”

He grabbed the wheel.

The car swerved sharply and my date took his foot off the accelerator and finally regained control as the boy sitting on the other side of the ‘driver’ wrestled him back into the middle of the seat.

“SSS’MY CAR! SSSSTEALIN’ MY CAR!!!”

“No we’re not stealing anything!”

“I’m Drivin’!” Again the driver reached for the wheel.

My date pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine, pocketing the key. “Let’s walk this off,” he suggested. He slid out of the car and pulled the ‘driver’ out behind him. “C’mon Buddy, let’s walk this off.”

The two of them went around the car to the ditch and started walking up and down, my date talking quietly and the ‘driver’ shouting more and more incoherently.

Lights appeared behind us.

Grew brighter.

A pick-up truck.

One we all knew very well.

Another friend and his date pulled over in front of us.

“Trouble?” he asked.

I went over to them. “Our driver’s drunk,” I said.

“Do any of you want to come with us?” he asked.

Relief flooded over me. “Well, I do!” I said. I went back to the other car. My date was till walking up and down with his friend, talking softly and soothingly. “Does anyone want to catch a ride?” I asked.

One other person scrambled out of the car. “I do,” they said.

“I’m going with Dennis!” I called to my date.

He waved. “Do!” he said.

I climbed into the truck and made room for the other person.

For a few seconds, we watched my date continue to walk and talk, trying to convince our agitated ‘driver’ that he really was in no condition to drive.

Then we drove off, the car and my other friends disappearing into the darkness behind us.

I felt like I was abandoning them.

Half an hour later, I was walking through my front door.

My relieved parents met me as I came in.

“What happened?” Dad asked.

I told them.

They shook their heads. “Thank the Lord you had enough sense to keep him from driving,” Mom said.

“Well, they were still trying when I left,” I said. “I don’t know what happened after that.”

Later, one of my other friends called to say that they had all gotten home safely. My date had managed to calm the ‘driver’ enough to get him back into the car. And the rest of them were able to keep him from grabbing the wheel.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

And she could always be counted on for a snuggle, or a story, or a song, or a treat.In that order.Gramma moved slowly. The result of having a shattered kneecap. I only knew that she couldn't get away from me.Oh, and that she had crutches.I loved those crutches. It didn't occur to my four-year-old intellect that they were a necessary part of Gramma’s mobility. I saw only that they were just right for me.

I would put the little bar (intended as a hand hold) under my arms and, with the top half of each crutch weaving far over my head, hop from one end of the house to the other. Then back. Then back again.All day.Sometimes I would mix it up a little and hold up the left leg instead of the right. Either was exciting.

And daring.

Okay, I was four. My life to date hadn't been filled with momentous events.

But I digress . . .There was one problem with my fascination for Gramma’s crutches. She needed them. And I usually had them.

Somewhere else.Something had to be done.My Dad, always excited at the prospect of a new engineering task, saw an opportunity. He would make new crutches. My size. Happily, he spent many hours in the blacksmith shop, designing, measuring, cutting. Crafting. Finally, voila! Crutches. Perfect four-year-old size.

Excited, he brought them to the house.

Unfortunately, it was nap time and I was blotto on the couch.Not one to let such a minor thing as a sleeping child thwart him, Dad stood me up and thrust the crutches under my arms.I can picture it now. Small, skinny, white-haired child – literally - asleep on her feet. Head lolling to one side. A tiny snore. (Okay, my imagination’s good. I admit it.) Her dad holds her up with one hand while trying to brace the crutches under her arms with the other. For this story, a Dad with three hands would probably be advisable. She folds like cooked spaghetti. He tries again. Same result. Finally, defeated, he lays her back on the couch and braces the crutches against it for her to find when she is a bit more . . . conscious.Which she does.From then on, my crutches and me were inseparable. They were even tied behind when I went riding. I almost forgot how to walk. Strangers to the ranch would shake their heads sadly at the little crippled child making her way across the barnyard. Then nod and acknowledge that she sure had learned how to move quickly, poor little mite. I felt guilty for the deception.

Well, a little.

A real little.Okay, not at all.I certainly learned to manoeuvre those little crutches. The only thing I never mastered was walking while lifting both feet at the same time. And, believe me, I tried.Meanwhile, back at the ranch house, Gramma was delighted to have her crutches back. She could get around once more. She could be portable, helpful, useful. All the qualities she found so satisfying.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

It was summertime on the ranch. The perfect season of
cloudless blue skies, soft, sage-soaked breezes, warm, golden sunshine and
scented, star-studded nights.

And what better way to enjoy one’s occasional leisure hours than
by swinging – relaxed, semi-conscious and blissful - in one’s very own hammock.

To ten-year-old Mark, the concept seemed heaven-sent.

There was just one catch.

He didn’t possess a hammock.

And his parents did not appear to be forthcoming with one.

Sigh.

But Mark was a kid of the prairies. What he didn’t possess,
he made.

Or made do.

His dad was changing out the old canvas on the binder. Hmmm
. . .

Mark studied the discarded heap of coarse material carefully.
Then he scooped it up and carted it to the trees. Specifically to the two tall
trees he had picked as being the biggest and most hammock-support-like.

Sometime later, following a maximum of grunting, sweating
and words sometimes thought but seldom said, Mark was looking at a brand new hammock.

His brand new
hammock.

His pride of accomplishment over spilled its banks.

Handsprings anyone?

A party was called for.

A celebration.

A . . .

Mark would have to settle for talking his mother into
allowing him to sleep out on his new acquisition.

It took some doing, but he was finally able to convince her.

Happily, he gathered blankets and gear for his amazing
outdoor adventure and in short order was perched atop his newest and best
acquisition.

Snuggled down and shivering with delight, he waited for the
sun to go down.

Then to come up again.

Which it did.

Mark blinked sleepily at the newly-risen sun. It was then he
realized that his mouth felt . . . funny.

Sliding out of his hammock, he ran to the house and the
nearest mirror.

Where he received a distinct shock. His upper lip was swollen
like a balloon.

With no idea what could possibly have happened, he ran for
his mother. Who took one look at his face and said, calmly, “Looks like
a bug bit you, son.”

A bug bit him?! His face was three times its normal size
and ‘a bug bit him’?!

Frantically, he raced back to the mirror and minutely studied
his poor abused outside. How was he going to go through life looking like this?!

In case you're worried, I'll tell you that the swelling did go down. Fairly quickly in fact. With only
one side effect. Mark now regarded hammocks with a degree of suspicion.

I mean – no one ever told him that they could come with uninvited
and totally unexpected ‘guests’.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .